the sky is falling off the ceiling
by black-ostias
Summary: college AU. last valentine's there was andrea, and during high school there was mike. no one has ever bothered to know michonne beyond quick hook-ups and failed first dates since then. no one but these two, though. COMPLETE.


**happy birthday, queen danai gurira. this is my gift to you, except i'd die from embarrassment if you somehow read this. more aptly, this is the butt-window-panties fic i promised my fellow rixonne shippers on tumblr. we may be small, but our love knows no bounds.**

**title is from panic! at the disco. let the porn and cuteness begin.**

* * *

They keep coming around.

A year ago was when these two guys showed up, the curly-haired one ordering shots for them both though it was still Tuesday, his friend scratching the side of his neck compulsively, biting his lip. They were both blue-eyed, all-American white boys, easy on the eyes. You lined up the neat little glasses in front of them, already bracing for jokes about colored help and everything you've been hearing since you started working at this bar to pay off your student loans. But they both just smiled, and the more talkative one thanked you.

And then they came back on Friday, and next Tuesday, until you know their names (Rick and Daryl) and the most useless things about them (Rick's tendency to mix vodka and whiskey, Daryl's hunting as a livelihood and not just a sport, Daryl's well-ingrained fear of electrocution so he never touches his phone if his hand is wet, their shared love of baseball). And then you started wondering what Rick's throat would taste like, or how far Daryl's tan reaches, if he's paper-pale above his arms and stomach, untouched.

It's safe to say you're in a lot of trouble.

"What're you doing on Valentine's?" Rick asks, and you look up from where you're wiping the countertop, fix them with a dry smile.

"It's my birthday."

Daryl's eyes grow huge, and he leans forward in his seat, conspiratorial. "At the same _time_?"

You laugh. They're already pretty drunk, listing towards each other like uneven buildings, as they always do. "Yeah, at the same time. Don't care much about either of them, right now, really."

Rick stirs the straw in his fuckin' girly-ass pink drink, as Daryl calls it, and says to it, "Don't have a boyfriend to spend the day with?"

If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was hitting on you, except you're pretty sure he's gay. Gay together with Daryl, what with how they stare at each other when they think no one can see.

You shrug and move on to the glasses, taking vicious care at the rims. "Nope." Last year there was Andrea, and during high school there was Mike. No one has ever bothered to know you beyond quick hook-ups and failed first dates since then.

No one but these two, though.

"Jesus, I still got that history quiz on Thursday," Daryl groans, rubbing at his mouth.

"It's just a quiz, not a final exam."

"But every point counts," he insists to Rick, who's huffing in that affectionate way of his and hooking a hand in Daryl's belt as they both stand up, Daryl clumsily leafing out rumpled ones and dull-glinting nickels. You raise an eyebrow at the lack of a tip, and Rick gives you three dollars more than he should, sing-songing a Katy Perry tune into incomprehension.

Your apartment building is two blocks further down the road, and when you hit the bed you dream of licking into Daryl's mouth, of skidding your forehead down the notched path of Rick's spine. Even unawake, your cunt throbs for want of it.

little girl, you want far more than you should.

Friday night comes and they don't show up, their space at the bar occupied by Maggie, chemistry major, and Glenn, pizza boy. They seem to have started Valentine's early, batting their lashes at each other and all. You'd be happy for them if you weren't so envious of their simple joy, if you weren't imagining Rick and Daryl doing the exact same thing, away from you.

You have no right to feel like this.

Rosita gives you a half-full bottle of bourbon to take home once your shift ends, teasing you, "Don't drink it all in one go, okay?" You flip her off on reflex, her cackles following you out.

You don't drink all the liquor in one go, certainly not. You aren't that much of a hopeless single yet. But you do consume enough of it that once the morning comes, getting to your feet to stumble towards the bathroom is something of a production, and you grimace against the brightness of the porcelain tile, the thick sludge sensation behind your throat.

The knock on your door is surprising, to say the least.

You're eating oatmeal with milk and copious amounts of sugar, feeling relatively more human, and now staring at your apartment entrance with reasonable trepidation. Any family you have are four states up and too far away for a house call, and your friends are too busy pairing off to want anything to do with you. You pad up to the door on tiptoe, and check who it is through the peephole.

Daryl is raising his fist for another knock, as Rick stands with his hands in his pockets and his face guarded, watchful, sighing, "maybe she's not home."

You jerk the door open so fast the safety chain shrieks in defiance, and you're stuck staring at the two of them, staring at you in your Ninja Turtles shirt and pajama bottoms.

"Just a sec," you manage to blurt out, slamming the door shut again to take off the chain before opening it all the way. "You guys okay?"

"We, uh." Rick clears his throat. "Can we come in?"

They take in the mess of your space better than you thought they would. Daryl smiles at your sketches, your paper maches, the wooden fencing sword stuck behind your stacks of folios. "These are good," Rick tells you, grinning quick and uneasy, for some reason.

"Yeah," you say, drawing the word out, "how'd you guys even know my room number?"

Daryl lifts one shoulder. "We asked Rosie," he says, affecting an air of casualness too much to be anything but horribly tense.

"Why are you here?" you ask with your face tilted towards the floor, hating how shaky you sound. They're both just five feet away from you with no bar between to protect you.

They exchange secretive grins that make your stomach twist up, but not from dread. Far from it. "Haven't you figured it out yet?" Rick's voice is so soft you almost miss it, and you can only stare carefully and stunned as his tongue pokes out and draws over his lower lip.

Over Rick's shoulder, Daryl's smile hasn't wavered one bit. "We're your presents," he says, smoke-rough and plainly honest. Christ, that statement feels so surreal. Every inch of this is so surreal. You keep waiting to jolt awake for a second time.

"This better not be a fucking joke," you grit out, and Rick steps forward, lifting his hand like he'll touch your cheek and you flinch back, an exhale shocked from your lungs, nothing but the surprise to blame for it, swear to god.

He smiles, so sweet and fond and you feel like your knees might buckle on the spot. "So will you have us, Mich? Say the word, yes or no."

It's remarkable. "Yes," you say without hesitation, not even having to think.

Rick leans down and kisses you, and for a second it's the only place you're touching, his tongue stroking hot and deep. He tastes of menthol candy, so clean for such a filthy kiss. Your legs kind of do buckle right then, but Daryl goes to your side with an arm around your waist, pulling the hem of your collar back and sucking at the hinge of your jaw.

"Tomorrow, too, right?" you manage, once Rick has let you go, slurring with your lips at Daryl's ear. "Not just now."

"No, all the time, for always," Daryl says like he's hyperventilating. He opens his mouth with yours, Rick panting and laughing as he runs a hand up the inside of your thigh, sure and clever fingers tracing your slick cunt through your pajamas. Your groan is embarrassingly loud, but you're so far past caring.

Daryl is looking down at the sight, transfixed, but then shakes his head hard like he's trying to remember something. "Fuck, hey, show her," he tells Rick.

You tighten your grip on Daryl's forearm when Rick pulls back, ready to growl your protests, except Rick's started fumbling at his jeans. You swat his hands away and thumb them open, slip a hand inside, relishing how his hips jerk helplessly, how his lips shape curses.

You only see the panties when you start tugging his pants down.

"_Don't_, don't laugh," he mumbles, yanking his hoodie and undershirt over his head, all smooth shoulders and flat stomach. You try to take in the diamond pattern against the tightly woven black mesh, the red bows girding the edges at his hips. You don't feel like laughing at all, since the flimsy material does nothing to hide his arousal, and going to your knees is the most natural thing.

Rick actually shudders when you suck languorously at the soft space beneath his navel, hands flying to cup the back of your head like he has to steady himself. "Michonne," he moans, his gaze on yours going darker and heavier every second, his succeeding grin razor-bright, catching you unawares. "Daryl's wearing one too."

"Asshole," Daryl mutters, flushing an even worse shade of pink, though he does toe off his shoes, yank down his pants far enough to reveal the exact same lingerie. "Was _your_ idea. Took us forever to find shit that'd fit, too." He lifts one corner of his mouth, coquettish. "You like?"

You don't even want to bother with words, at this point. You answer by grasping both their hands to pull yourself to your feet, then lead them to your bedroom. Rick has lost every article of clothing but those ridiculous panties, and you giggle when he drags you onto his lap. Daryl uses taking his pants off as an excuse to turn around and bend over, the split of his ass completely visible through the little window cut in the back of his panties. Your pulse staggers and you reach out, greedy for all that exposed skin, splaying a possessive hand over his lower back to tug him onto the mattress with you and Rick.

"Take this off?" you ask, fingering the hem of his tank top, and he bites his lip, oddly anxious. "Maybe later," he says, and you let him lie down so he's sandwiched against your left side while Rick's on your right. It's a little cramped, the three of you on a bed meant for one, but they're both so _greedy_, mouthing and stroking every place of you they can reach.

You gasp up at the blue stucco ceiling, your eyes enormous, feeling swollen, overwhelmed. One of your hands is wrenched in Rick's curls, the other in the sheets, nails scratching at Daryl's stomach. "How," Rick starts, and stops, tries again, "What do you want?"

_everything_, you want to sob, except you're fuse-lit and aching and you take both their wrists, drag their hands inside your pajamas. "Like this, just." You moan deep in your throat. "Please."

Daryl nods, looking so damn happy as he kisses your cheek, terribly chaste in contrast to how he's circling over your clit, to how Rick has slipped two fingers straight inside you like he's been planning this for so long. Staring deliriously at their astonished grins, you think maybe they must have.

The heat rises and rises until you break, as swift and crushing as a tidal wave, and you nearly snap your spine from crying out much too loud. Even so, they're relentless, and you don't tell them to stop, not until you've come a second time and your muscles start to quake.

"That's enough, that's –" You gulp in air as Rick withdraws his hand, slow enough that you feel him leave you, and he smirks and lifts his fingers to his red mouth, sucking idly. Your insides clench up in the most electric way, and Daryl groans at the sight, grinding against your thigh.

And now there's something else you want.

"You can kiss each other," you say, smiling at their blinking, sheepish faces. "I don't mind."

You don't mind at all, because Rick clambers over you and Daryl falls off the edge of the bed and they lick into each other's mouths, frenzied and desperate. Rick sucks down his cock through the panties, Daryl's hips shuddering in Rick's grip. You press yourself against Rick's back, use both hands to bring him to his peak, Daryl following with an undignified curse.

Rick ends up ordering takeout for the three of you, while you lie on top of Daryl under the covers, warm against each other.

"I got scars," Daryl tells you abruptly, and flinches. "My old man was a mean ole drunk, and he'd – Rick hasn't seen 'em either. That's why I didn't wanna –"

You frown at him, and sit up as best you can, already shaking your head. "You don't have to explain yourself." You kiss the soft place under his throat, your chest gone tight. "But you have to know we won't care, right?"

Daryl shrugs, but the tension is seeping from his body, at least, and he half-jokes, "Might scare ya off."

"Boy, I've just seen your hairy ass in lingerie, you think anything else can scare me off?"

"How many times I gotta tell you, that was Rick's idea, not mine," but he's smiling wide enough that the blue of his eyes has disappeared into adorable slits, and you kiss him again for that, because you can. It quickly morphs into something heavier, his palms molding to your breasts and your hips rocking down.

You glance at the doorway to find Rick watching, arms crossed and eyes glittering. "Get over here already," Daryl huffs at him, and Rick gets one knee on the bed, kissing you before bending down to meet Daryl's eager mouth, and you're still so amazed by that.

Lunch is spent watching Netflix on your laptop in the kitchen, the three of you crowding on the countertop. Daryl is wearing Rick's hoodie, his hair falling into his eyes. You steal Rick's egg roll and he bonks his head on the bend of your shoulder, sighing dramatically, "The things I sacrifice for you" and rolling his eyes at Daryl's huge grin. You kiss Rick's forehead for his troubles, settle into the bracket of Daryl's arm.

For once, you enter the bar as a customer and not an employee. The boss, Rosita's boyfriend Abe, takes one look at how the three of you are walking so close together in a haphazard bubble of warmth, and snorts, "'Bout damn time." Beth gives her 'i want explicit details later!' wave at you from where she's in her booth with Tara, and Gareth, snide econ freshman that he is, drawls, "So you two gave in to your Hottentot complex, finally?"

Daryl scowls, half-risen from his seat already, but you lay a hand on his arm. "He's not worth our time, babe," you soothe him, and after searching your face, he visibly calms down, though he doesn't stop glaring at the kid across the bar.

"We can always pelt his car with rotten eggs sometime," Rick says in a whispered chuckle, also attempting to diffuse the situation. "He parks just outside our dorm."

"And scratch his side door," you add gleefully.

"Slash his tires too," Daryl says, toasting with his beer bottle.

Rick nods, all sage-like. "In that order."

You order a ginger ale, sniggering at how bland Abe's distaste is when Rick makes the predictable pun about his hair color. Daryl commandeers your drink to try it out of curiosity, the shadow of his hand fallen across his face, the white fluorescents of the overhead bulbs refracting through the glass and cutting blocky holes of amber light on his fingers and cheek. His knee rests against yours, Rick's fingers forming a loose circle around your wrist, chasing your heartbeat. You're falling for them all over again, brand new and right back where you'd started.

This is your life, and right now your life is good.


End file.
